


inconvenient fireworks

by avennvares



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, First Meetings, Getting Together, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29800359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avennvares/pseuds/avennvares
Summary: He collides with something solid, and that something solid makes a noise that sounds like, “Oof,” and Keiji is cursing himself as he drops the box onto his foot in shock. Gritting his teeth, he slides his foot out from its trap, and then he dissolves into apologies.“I am so sorry,” Keiji says to the man he knocked flat onto his ass. “Are you okay? I couldn’t see, I—”The man laughs, fully throwing his head back and howling. “It’s okay,” he assures Keiji, swallowing back more laughter. “Help me up?”
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 8
Kudos: 109
Collections: Haikyuu Big Bang 2020





	inconvenient fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> Finally my haikyuu Big Bang fic is done... I had a lot of moments where I thought I wouldn’t be able to finish it on time, and yet... here we are.
> 
> Big big big thanks and love to millienery over on twitter for the lovely art work for this fic! 
> 
> Fic title comes from “Stray Italian Greyhounds” by Vienna Teng.
> 
> I hope you enjoy my silly meet-cute neighbor fic, I’m excited to finally have it out in the world.

The box of books slams down onto the carpeted floor, and Akaashi Keiji says a silent apology to his downstairs neighbor. He wipes the sweat from his brow and exhales dramatically— there were three more boxes to be hauled from his car to his third floor apartment, and more still back home. Moving is going to take longer than he had originally hoped. Leaning down, he places his palms on the side of the box and _pushes,_ moving the box towards the far wall of his new living room where the others are lined up in a neat row.

He considers taking a break, maybe going down the street and getting an ice cream, or maybe just laying on his carpet and trying to calm his breathing. But that would be irresponsible, he thinks. And it would just take him longer to finish if he did it that way. He taps the edge of the box with his foot, not fully kicking in fear of hurting himself, but wanting to show his frustration all the same. Keiji turns and heads back out the doorway, door still wide open.

It’s a nice day— not too hot or humid, not rainy or cloudy. He appreciates the nice weather as he walks quickly through the hallways and out of the apartment complex. When Keiji had moved to his college dorm, it had been raining. He spent the day moving soggy cardboard into a too-small room, his hair plastered against his head and the wet, heavy fabric of his clothes rubbing rashes into his skin. This move was much more ideal.

With a deep breath, Keiji squares his shoulders, bracing himself as he lifts another box (more books, damnit) into his arms. The weight makes him stumble as he takes a few steps back away from his car. “Okay, okay, okay,” he whispers to himself as he kicks his car door closed. Just down the hall, up the stairs, down another hall, and he’s there. He begins to walk quickly, not wanting the box to slip from his feeble grasp. Keiji’s strength was all in his legs— a product of perpetually skipping arm day in high school and college.

Somehow, he makes it up the stairs, and then his arms give out. He sets the box on the edge of the stairs and places his hands on his knees, steadying his breathing. His glasses slip just a bit down his nose.

“Are you okay?” a voice asks, and Keiji takes his time pushing his glasses up and straightening his back.

The man in front of him is, in Keiji’s opinion, devilishly handsome. He’s taller than Keiji, maybe six foot, with hooded eyes and messy, black hair and a mouth that would make angels sin. Keiji’s mouth falls open at the sight. “Uhh,” he says intelligently, and blinks several times. “I’m okay.” He’s still slightly breathless.

“Do you need a hand?” The man’s eyes flick over to the box by the stairs, and Keiji follows his gaze. His shoulders slump in defeat… his door is still really far away.

But he’s not going to let this gorgeous man help him, even if he does have more muscle than Keiji. “No, it’s okay, I’ve got it,” he replies. He hypes himself up, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and then leans down to pick up the box once more.

“Thanks though,” he says, voice strained. He thinks he hears the man answer, but he’s so focused on moving forward, on getting to his damn apartment, that he can’t make out what it was.

He doesn’t make it to the door. In fact, he doesn’t make it very far from the stairs at all. He collides with something solid, and that something solid makes a noise that sounds like, “Oof,” and Keiji is cursing himself as he drops the box onto his foot in shock. Gritting his teeth, he slides his foot out from its trap, and then he dissolves into apologies.

“I am so sorry,” Keiji says to the man he knocked flat onto his ass. “Are you okay? I couldn’t see, I—”

The man laughs, fully throwing his head back and howling. “It’s okay,” he assures Keiji, swallowing back more laughter. “Help me up?” He holds his hand out, wiggles his fingers, and Keiji takes his hand without question, heaves him back onto his feet.

“I’m sorry—,” Keiji starts to say again, but the victim of his box shushes him.

“Dude,” he says, “it’s fine, accidents happen.” But Keiji can’t help but feel like he would have been endlessly annoyed if it was him who had been knocked down by some idiot who wasn’t paying attention.

Keiji lets go of his hand, takes him in, and again his mouth drops open.

_This_ man is… so goofy looking.

His smile is too big for his face, and his badly dyed hair is styled in such a hilarious up do that Keiji wonders if it’s bedhead. Keiji can’t imagine someone would _want_ to look like this.

“Right, so…,” Keiji trails off, eyes once again on his still-open apartment door, wanting to just get this exhausting day over with.

“Bokuto,” a voice says behind them. The same voice that Keiji had spoken too just a moment before. “Watch where you’re going, hm?”

Keiji’s victim—Bokuto—responds by laughing once more. “I was reading a text. Tsum-Tsum sent a text to the group chat that said—”

“I don’t care,” the handsome man says. Somehow, he’s by their side now, pointing down at Keiji’s cursed box. “Pick that up.”

Keiji’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to snap. He doesn’t care who this guy is, or how attractive he is, who the hell gave him the right to talk to him like that? He’d pick his box up when he pleased. What, was he upset that Keiji had hurt his friend? Bokuto had just admitted to not paying attention either! They were both to blame in this whole debacle.

Bokuto picks up the box with little effort.

“Good,” Mr. Looker says, “it’s the least you can do.” He glances at Keiji, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “Where to?”

Wordlessly (and slightly embarrassed that he’d misunderstood) Keiji points to the open door.

Bokuto begins his trek down the hall, not struggling half as much as Keiji did. “So,” he says, voice completely normal, not a trace of strain, “you’re our new neighbor?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” Keiji says, trailing behind. “Starting today.”

“Kuroo and I live there.” Bokuto’s head tilts in the direction of the door they’re passing— apartment 304, right next to Keiji’s 305. Neighbors, indeed. “So feel free to stop by if you ever need anything. Like a cup of sugar or some drinking buddies… maybe a family game night.”

“Kuroo…?” Keiji asks, and the dark haired man raises his hand in a half wave.

“That would be me,” Kuroo says.

Keiji figures since introductions are taking place that he should tell them his name, too. “I’m Akaashi.”

“Akaashi!” Bokuto shouts, and Keiji jumps at the sudden volume and the way his name bounces in the hall. “Pretty name for a pretty face.” He crosses the threshold of Keiji’s apartment, walking all the way in and to the other boxes against the walls. He sets the box down on top of another and claps his hands together.

“Whew!” he exclaims, all volume. “That was heavy.” Bokuto hadn’t made it _look_ like it was heavy, that was for sure. Keiji’s eye twitches. “What do you got in there? Bricks?”

“No,” Keiji answers. “Just books.” He watches as Bokuto rolls his shoulders, the muscles in his arms tensing as he moves. Damn, Keiji thinks, Bokuto certainly never skipped arm day.

“Books can be just as heavy as bricks,” Kuroo says, and Keiji turns to see him leaning against his doorway. He’s wearing that cocky grin that makes Keiji’s heart beat faster. “You got anymore?” he asks, nodding at Keiji’s boxes.

“Two,” Keiji says. “But I can get them, they shouldn’t be as heavy—”

“I’ll get them!” Bokuto says. He’s already moving past Keiji, pushing Kuroo’s frame out of the doorway. “What kind of car do you drive?” Keiji’s wide eyes look at Kuroo, unsure how to react or respond, and Kuroo catches his eye and shrugs.

“You may as well let him help,” he says, “there’s no stopping him now.”

In the end, both Bokuto and Kuroo end up carrying his last two boxes up the stairs, Keiji trailing behind them empty handed. Again, Bokuto makes the box seem weightless, rattling on about people who Keiji doesn’t know, telling some story about a time at a karaoke bar and how someone ended up throwing up in another’s lap. “Anyway, it was a team bonding experience!” Bokuto says as he sets down his box next to Kuroo’s, laughing joyfully.

Kuroo, who Keiji is glad to see is a bit breathless and has sweat beading on his forehead, shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t acknowledge Bokuto’s story further than that and instead addresses Keiji once more:

“That’s the last of it, right?” he asks, and Keiji nods. “Well, we’ll let you get to unpacking then. Welcome to the neighborhood.” He smiles and throws Keiji a wink, and Keiji desperately wants to ask for his number because it definitely seems like Kuroo is flirting with him.

“Wait, no!” Bokuto’s voice interrupts Keiji’s thoughts. He steps between Kuroo and Keiji, looking back and forth. “We should celebrate! Let’s go get some meat.”

“Celebrate what?” Keiji wonders aloud, and Bokuto’s goofy smile lights up his face.

“Our new neighbor, of course,” Bokuto says. His eyes are looking at Keiji so intensely that Keiji has to drop his gaze to the floor, goosebumps forming up and down his arms. Keiji’s always been uncomfortable by attention— he played volleyball in high school, and used to fumble quite a bit during his first year. It’s gotten better over the years, but elongated eye contact still makes him squirm.

He’s going to turn this dinner invitation down. Going out with a couple of strangers sounds like the dumbest decision ever. And he really wants to get settled sooner rather than later. Keiji exhales and brings his eyes back to Bokuto. “Actually, I—”

A loud ringing interrupts Keiji’s rejection, and Bokuto holds up his pointer finger in front of Keiji’s face. “Hold that thought,” he says, and takes two steps away from Keiji and towards the door, answering the phone with a, “Heeeeeeeey!” Keiji’s eyes cut to Kuroo.

Kuroo smiles at him. “Yeah, he’s always like this. Part of the charm.”

“What’s charming? The volume of his voice?”

At that, Kuroo laughs, and Keiji thinks _that’s_ charming. Keiji smiles now, too, chuckling just a bit.

“Okay, okay!” Bokuto says, phone still pressed to his ear. “Stop yelling, Tsumu! I’m on my way, I had to help a distressed citizen!” Keiji can’t make out what the voice on the other end of the line says, but they definitely don’t stop yelling. “It’s my hero complex!” A few more words are exchanged before Bokuto hangs up, looking back at Keiji and Kuroo. Keiji can’t put his finger on it, but something about Bokuto in this moment seems different than the Bokuto from a moment before.

“You’ll just have to get dinner without me,” he says, shoulders slumped. “I forgot that we moved practice up an hour today, and I’m late.” He sighs, loudly, dejectedly, and his eyes look so deeply sad that Keiji’s stomach pulls. Did he really want to celebrate Keiji’s move-in day this badly?

Kuroo opens his mouth, presumably to say something to Bokuto, but Keiji beats him to it: “It’s okay,” he says, meeting Bokuto’s eyes, “we can postpone. You should take care of your other obligations first.”

Bokuto’s nodding, eyes lighting up just a bit. “Okay,” he says, and the small smile pulling at his lips is enough to change Keiji’s perception of Bokuto altogether.

Maybe he is a bit handsome.

———

It takes three days for Keiji to get his apartment looking the way he envisioned it: neat, organized, a bookshelf in the corner of the living room and a desk next to it for work, artwork lining the walls of his bedrooms. It’s what he’s wanted for years but could never afford, slowly collecting furniture throughout college in hopes that one day he’d get a well paying job and make his dreams of a cozy home a reality.

Thinking about his home, about a cup of coffee in his hand while he relaxes on a couch that sat in his parents garage for two years, is what carries his feet on a hard, exhausting day like this one. Deadlines are soon, and Keiji’s been having the hardest time getting his author to send him the drafts of his book. It was frustrating to no end— especially since Keiji believed in this book so thoroughly and wanted it to line shelves in the bookstore. It had so much _potential,_ so could the author please answer Keiji’s phone calls so Keiji’s boss could get off of his ass?

He slams his car door, the hem of his cardigan getting caught in the crossfire. Keiji curses, punches the window and curses again as the impact of his knuckle on glass travels up his arm. _Calm down, Keiji,_ he tells himself, taking a deep breath and actually _opening_ the door instead of punishing it further. What a day. He doesn’t even want to go through the process of making dinner. What if he lights his stove on fire or somehow manages to microwave metal?

Keiji shuffles to the door of the apartment complex, dragging his feet across the parking lot. It’s not like his job was physically exhausting, so he really shouldn’t complain too much. But the mental energy it took was enough to tense his shoulders and give him back aches and makes him so totally, completely exhausted. It’s only five in the afternoon, but Keiji thinks falling into bed after getting some food delivered is the best medicine to a long, hard day.

And maybe some coffee. On his couch. His nice couch.

“Akaashi!”

An arm throws itself across Keiji’s shoulders, and Keiji instantly knows who’s there. The shrill of the voice, the weight of the arm. He slides his eyes over to his new companion and sighs when he is met with Bokuto’s goofy grin. “Hey,” Keiji says, momentarily stopped in his tracks. Somehow, Bokuto grins wider.

“Hey! Fancy meeting you here.” He pulls away, hand lingering on Keiji’s shoulder for a second too long. He’s wearing a gold jacket, zipped up halfway, a gym bag thrown over his shoulder.

“I live here,” Keiji answers. He can’t help but feel more relaxed, shoulders untensing just ever so slightly. Bokuto’s positive energy was contagious.

“Me, too,” Bokuto says, and links his arm with Keiji’s, pulling him forward to the door. “In fact, I think we might be neighbors?”

Keiji laughs as they reach the door, Bokuto reaching out and holding it open. He gestures inside, and Keiji rolls his eyes—playfully, he hopes—as he steps in. “I’m actually leaving,” Bokuto says. “Gotta go to work, boo, but I’ll see you around?”

Keiji lingers in the doorway, over eager to continue the first good conversation he’s had all day. “You have work this late?” he asks, pulling his cardigan around his body and meeting Bokuto’s eyes.

“Kinda,” Bokuto says. He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right and back again, and Keiji mentally kicks himself for keeping him. “It’s an unconventional job, I guess.”

“Right. Well, you should go.”

“Right. I should.”

Bokuto takes two steps back away from the door and Keiji takes one, and then Bokuto moves three steps forward.

“By the way, that dinner? The celebratory one? Have we figured out a good time?”

Right. Keiji had said they’d postpone. Truthfully, he hadn’t been expecting it to get brought up again when he had said it, he just didn’t want to disappoint Bokuto more than he already was. And now, his smile was so wide and his eyes were so bright that he doesn’t want to bring Bokuto down again. Especially before work.

“I’m off on the weekends,” he says, and Bokuto backs up again.

“Good. Great! We’ll figure something out.” Keiji nods as the door between them shuts and Bokuto waves goodbye, jogging to the parking lot. Keiji watches the whole time, tilting his head as his eyes slide to his, ahem, glutes.

He’s not so bad looking, really. He might even be growing on him.

They don't go to dinner that weekend, or even the weekend after that. They occasionally see each other in the hallway and wave politely, but it always seems to be when Bokuto is on the phone or Keiji is running late to work. Too busy to stop and say hello.

On a Wednesday, Keiji is fumbling for his keys as he speed walks to his car, passing Bokuto on the way. His arms are full of paper grocery bags, and Keiji only knows its Bokuto from the ridiculous hairstyle poking out from the top. Keiji watches as Bokuto wobbles, watches as a bag slips from his grasp and lands on the ground, soup cans rolling out of their paper prison and down the sidewalk. Keiji looks at his car, looks at his watch, bites his lip, and chases after a can of cream of mushroom.

They waste three minutes scrambling for the cans— there are ten in total, and Keiji thinks two things: ‘No wonder the bag ripped’ and ‘Why does this guy eat so much soup?’ By the time they’re all gathered, Keiji is a bit short of breath, and of course Bokuto is fine.

“My hero!” Bokuto says, shooting Keiji a world stopping grin. It’s bright, brighter than the sun, and Keiji almost has to look away so he won’t be blinded.

_I should ask about that dinner,_ Keiji thinks, but in his jacket pocket his phone is ringing, and he has the sinking suspicion that it’s his boss, and he really should be going. He fishes it out of his pocket and puts it to his ear, already moving back in the direction of his car and waving goodbye to Bokuto.

On a Friday, Keiji sees him in line at a coffee place. It’s shocking to see him out here, in the real world, instead of in the vicinity of their mutual home. Two people separate Keiji from Bokuto, and since Keiji is towards the back of the line, he’s able to watch him without shame. He’s next to a shorter boy with a shock of orange hair, who is bouncing on the balls of his feet as they wait in line. They’re talking animatedly, and Keiji wishes he could make out what they were saying beneath the sound of the espresso machine and cheerful greetings. He watches as they speak briefly with the barista, watches as Bokuto fishes money from his pockets and hands it over.

_Look at me,_ Keiji wills. _Notice me._ But Bokuto and his orange friend move to the side, and the baristas are so fast today that they have their coffees in hand before Keiji even gets to the front of the line. Bokuto doesn’t, in fact, notice him, and Keiji thinks that it’s probably better this way. He wouldn’t know what to say to Bokuto if he had come over, anyway. What if, though… What if.

It is that Saturday that something aligns. Keiji had picked up hours at his office, meeting with his mangaka and pouring over unfinished pages, messy panels and concepts that needed tightening. The hours dragged on, 9 PM turning into 10, and 10 into 11, the hand on the clock turning until it was well past midnight and Keiji’s eyes were so heavy, his fingers jittering from the three cups of coffee consumed in short succession.

“Okay,” he says to his partner, “We can pick them back up on Monday.”

And he leaves, legs like lead and dragging him to the elevator, to his car, to his apartment building, and back up the stairs. He yawns, long and loud and not bothering to cover his mouth as he rounds the corner and heads to his apartment. Keiji stops in his tracks as his eyes open, and blinks a couple times. Surely his mind was playing a trick on him?

Surely Bokuto Kotaro wouldn’t be willingly sleeping in the hallway?

But Keiji blinks, and rubs at his eyes, and blinks again, and still Bokuto is there, his back against the door of his and Kuroo’s apartment, snoring lightly. His legs are sprawled out in front of him, blocking Keiji’s path, and Keiji could easily step over them, easily go to his door and forget about the weird sight.

He doesn’t. Instead, Keiji crouches down next to his neighbor, plants his hand on his shoulder and gives a light shake. “Bokuto?” he says, his voice a whisper. He doesn’t want to startle the man out of his slumber.

Bokuto’s head lolls to the side, on top of Keiji’s hand, and his eyes don’t open. He just continues snoring, and Keiji wonders how heavy of a sleeper he is.

“Bokuto,” he says again, louder this time and shaking harder. Bokuto jumps, eyes shooting open and the back of his head making impact with the door. “Owww,” he groans, hands rubbing at the spot. Keiji stands there, shifts his weight, bites his lip, wonders what he should do now that Bokuto is awake. Should he say goodnight? Should he ask him why he isn’t inside?

“Akaashi?” Bokuto is looking up at him now, bent forward over himself. “What are you doing here?”

Keiji wants to laugh. What was _he_ doing here? What was _Bokuto_ doing here? “I could ask you the same thing,” he says by way of an answer, and Bokuto looks behind him at his apartment door.

“I got home late,” Bokuto explains. “And I lost my key.” To demonstrate, he pats his pockets.

“So just knock,” Keiji says. He’s confused still, doesn’t understand Bokuto’s problem. It seems so silly to sleep on the hard concrete instead of his bed.

“Oh, yeah! I totally would,” Bokuto says, “but Kuroo’s fiancé is over and well…” He pauses for a moment, presses his ear against the door and listens for a moment, two, three… “Yep. Sounds like they’re still at it. It’d be rude to interrupt.”

“I didn’t realize Kuroo had a fiancé,” Keiji says, eyes sliding to the door. He takes a moment to think, tries to remember if he’s ever seen anyone in the apartment besides Kuroo and Bokuto.

“Oh, yeah! They’ve been together since high school. It’s super romantic,” Bokuto tells him. He stretches, shoulder popping and making him wince. “And Kenma’s got the tongue of a viper, so I _really_ don’t want to interrupt them and be on the receiving end of his rage.”

Keiji wonders, absently, if Bokuto is single or if he has some secret, super romantic love story Keiji doesn’t know about. “Sleeping out here is probably bad for your back.”

Bokuto grimaces. “Tell me about it. But really, it’s the lesser of the two evils. Believe me.”

But Keiji barely hears him, distracted. He’s looking at his own apartment door again, bottom lip once again between his teeth as he thinks and considers. He barely knows Bokuto, sure, but could he really let him sleep in the hall? Anything could happen in the night. What if a crazy gunman broke in? They’d see helpless, snoring Bokuto and take him out in an instant.

Besides, he kind of knows Bokuto. They’ve talked more than once. More than twice. He seems friendly. Too friendly sometimes, sure, but he doesn’t seem like he’d rob Keiji. Probably.

If he did, though, it would be Keiji’s own fault for not letting him sleep out in the hallway.

Though, if on the off chance a killer did get into the apartment and killed Bokuto, it would be Keiji’s fault for not inviting him in.

“You can sleep on my couch.” The words are out of Keiji’s mouth before he can even process he’s said them, still looking past Bokuto and at his door. Below him, he hears Bokuto gasp. He looks back at him, meets his eyes. They are bright and intense, a smile pulling at Bokuto’s mouth.

“You’d let me do that, Akaashi?” And his tone conveys so much excitement it makes Akaashi stumble back, makes him want to smile, too.

“I mean, it’ll still be bad for your back. But better than the floor.”

Bokuto is already on his feet, already moving towards Keiji’s door, trying the knob even though Keiji hasn’t unlocked it yet. Keiji shuffles over, placing the key in the lock and opening the door. Bokuto goes in first, taking off his shoes at the door and flicking the lights on as he moves further into the apartment.

“It looks so nice in here!” Bokuto exclaims, turning in a circle as he takes in the art on Keiji’s walls. “You really made it your own.”

Isn’t that the point, Keiji wonders, but he says nothing, just follows Bokuto in. When Keiji was a kid, when he used to go to friends’ houses, he wouldn’t so much as sit down without his friend telling him it was okay. Bokuto is the exact opposite, moving into the kitchen and opening the fridge wide open.

Keiji is shocked to discover that he doesn’t mind.

“I’m _so_ hungry,” Bokuto says, moving from the fridge to the cabinets. Keiji watches him, knowing he won’t find anything. Keiji’s late nights at the office have been frequent and he hasn’t had time to properly go grocery shopping. Instead, he usually stops by convenience stores on his way home and eats microwaved dinners.

As he watches Bokuto search, he grabs his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and dialing a number. “Is pizza okay?” he asks Bokuto, phone already pressed to his ear. Bokuto stops mid search, looks at Keiji. He opens his mouth to speak, and Keiji presses his index finger against his lips, so Bokuto just nods enthusiastically instead.

Keiji places the order, and Bokuto is moving across his kitchen and towards his living room, plopping himself on Keiji’s couch and snatching up the TV remote. Once Keiji hangs up, he joins him, pulling his legs up on the couch. Bokuto flips through channels at a lightning quick speed, unsatisfied with everything that pops up.

“Why did you get home late?” Keiji asks, half because he’s curious and half because the starting and stopping of random sentences from the TV is hurting Keiji’s ears, is causing anxiety to swell up in his chest.

“Work,” Bokuto answers, and he doesn’t even look at Keiji.

And Keiji’s gotta know. He just has to. What the hell does Bokuto Kotaro do for work that causes him to get home so late? He could just ask the question like that, he plans on asking just like that, but the question comes out like, “Are you a stripper?”

Bokuto chokes, and Keiji startles, and then Bokuto is laughing so hard he’s holding his stomach, the TV remote falling out of his hand and clackering on the floor. Keiji’s face heats up— he must look like a tomato now.

“I didn’t mean that. I just meant—” God, he’s really done it now. Great going, Akaashi Keiji. You smooth operator. “I meant, what do you do for work?”

Bokuto’s laughter doesn’t die, but after a few too long moments it begins to calm down. He looks at Keiji, wipes laughter-made tears from the corners of his eyes. “I’m not a stripper,” he says, and from his reaction to the question, Keiji had already guessed as much. “I play volleyball.”

Oh. _Oh. _He plays volleyball. Keiji supposes that makes sense; it would explain the leaving for work late, the gym bag, the clothes Bokuto left the apartment in.__

__Bokuto’s got his phone out, tapping away, and Keiji worries that he’s telling his roommate about Keiji’s hilarious misreading of him. But then he turns the phone towards Keiji and it’s a video: TOP 5 OF BOKUTO KOTARO’S BEST SPIKES. Keiji scoops the abandoned remote off of the floor and mutes the TV as Bokuto presses play on his phone._ _

__The energy that the Bokuto on the screen displays is contagious— even though these games are long over and guaranteed that Bokuto will score, Keiji gets excited each time the ball slams into the floor and earns his team a point. The roar from the crowd in the video is deafening over the speaker, so Keiji can’t imagine what it must be like in person. How it must feel to know all of those people are cheering you on._ _

__When the video ends, Keiji looks up to see Bokuto grinning at him. The smile is all teeth, crinkling the corners of his gold eyes. For some reason, Keiji can’t look away. Here, in his living room, Bokuto Kotaro is shining so brightly, just like he did on the phone screen. Why? There’s no one here to charm. No crowd to win over._ _

__Just Keiji._ _

__And Bokuto._ _

__And for a moment, Keiji wonders if, maybe, all those times Bokuto had asked him out to dinner was his way of being polite and neighborly, or if there was another motivation there. Maybe, Keiji thinks, Bokuto had been asking him on a date? It’s easy to believe with Bokuto next to him like this and smiling just for him._ _

__A knock on the door interrupts Keiji’s thoughts, and a wave of annoyance washes over him. Who could be knocking at this hour?_ _

__He’s reminded of exactly who would be knocking when Bokuto gets up and says, “Pizza’s here!” Somehow, Keiji had completely forgotten that they’d ordered it. He swipes some cash off of the kitchen counter and places the bills in Bokuto’s hand for him to pay._ _

__Bokuto opens the door, and Keiji hears him and the delivery guy talk, Bokuto saying some joke that makes the pizza guy laugh on the other side of the door. And then the door closes and Bokuto returns to the couch, next to Keiji with box in hand._ _

__The pizza is extremely greasy, and it’s making Keiji’s stomach a bit sick, but Bokuto doesn’t seem to mind, taking huge bites out of his slice. “What do _you_ do for work?” he asks, mouth full. Keiji makes sure all the pizza is out of his mouth before he answers, wiping the corners of his mouth with one of the brown napkins provided. _ _

__“I’m an editor.”_ _

__Bokuto’s wide eyes are genuinely curious: “For, like, books?”_ _

__“Manga, for now,” Keiji corrects. He takes a another bite, chews slowly as he thinks. He’d wanted to be a literature editor, because that would be more impressive to tell his parents. They see manga as something for children, something above their Keiji, who did wonderfully in college and wears glasses and cardigans. He doesn’t _dress_ like a manga editor (how would a manga editor dress in his parents’ minds?) so he shouldn’t _be_ a manga editor. “I’m hoping to make my way to the literary department one day, though.”_ _

__“That’s really cool,” Bokuto says. He seems like he means it, but Keiji can’t help but feel self-conscious._ _

__“Not as cool as being a professional volleyball player.”_ _

__The smile is back, but this time Keiji can’t take his eyes off the pizza sauce stain in the corner of Bokuto’s mouth. “You’re right; nothing is as cool as being a professional volleyball player.”_ _

__Keiji thinks that he should be offended. If his mother were here and overheard Bokuto say that to him, she surely would be. But Keiji just thinks it’s funny; he laughs, covering his mouth as he does so. “That’s true,” he says. “You know, I used to play volleyball in high school.”_ _

__“Really?” Bokuto’s voice bounces off his walls. “What position?”_ _

__“Setter.” He’d been pretty good at it, too, he thinks, but never really passionate about it. Not in the way that Bokuto clearly is._ _

__“That makes so much sense.” Bokuto finishes his slice of pizza and fishes out another. It droops in his hand as he pulls it towards him, a bead of grease running down the cheese and landing on Bokuto’s sweatpants. Keiji wrinkles his nose._ _

__“What does?”_ _

__“That you played setter.” He doesn’t even notice the grease. He bites into the pizza, chewing loudly._ _

__“Why’s that?” What about Keiji screams ‘setter’ to this man? He knows he doesn’t look very athletic— he’s been told that before by college classmates and coworkers who are always surprised when Keiji talks about high school._ _

__“Setters are always really pretty. It’s like a rule.”_ _

__Keiji’s never been aware of that rule. “Pretty?” Bokuto thinks he’s pretty? Is _that_ something he should be offended by?_ _

__“You’re like, model gorgeous. It’s your eyes. And your eyebrows. Everything, really.” Keiji wonders if he’s imagining the pink that dusts Bokuto’s cheeks. Bokuto swallows, wipes his mouth with his arm. He doesn’t quite get the aforementioned sauce in the corner of his mouth, though, so Keiji picks up his napkin and leans forward, dapping at it._ _

__Their faces are really close like this— Keiji can smell the pizza on Bokuto’s breath, and Keiji knows that means that Bokuto can smell his, too. He tries not to think too hard about it, focusing on the task at hand instead and sitting back when he’s done._ _

__Keiji _knows_ he’s not imagining Bokuto’s pink cheeks now because the color has taken over his complexion, his eyes wide as he stares at Keiji. _ _

__“It was bothering me,” Keiji explains, and Bokuto’s breath shudders when he breathes in._ _

__They talk more as they eat, about their families (Bokuto has two older sisters, where Keiji is an only child), their coworkers (“Speaking of pretty setters,” Bokuto says an hour after they had moved on from the conversation.), and anything else that comes to mind. Bokuto makes Keiji laugh until they’re both crying, leaning against the arms of the couch for support, Keiji’s ribs hurting as he gasps for air._ _

__It’s fun. Keiji is having such a good time he never wants it to end, except that the digital clock on his phone is telling him that it’s 3 AM. Keiji knows himself well enough to know that if he doesn’t sleep now, he’ll be the worst person to talk to in the morning. So he stands up, and Bokuto must pick up on what that means because he says, “Awww,” and Keiji almost sits back down because he doesn’t want to disappoint him._ _

__Instead, he goes to his closet and grabs some blankets, replacing his spot on the couch with them. He’s unsure of what to say before he goes to bed— “See you tomorrow” or just a simple “Goodnight”?— and he feels relief when Bokuto speaks first._ _

__“Goodnight, Akaashi. Thanks for inviting me over.”_ _

__“Goodnight, Bokuto,” Keiji replies, and he slips into his bedroom, easing the door shut. He plops down onto his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he plays the last couple of hours through his mind. There’s a twisting in his stomach, a fluttering. Butterflies. This goofy looking man with the biggest smile has managed to give him butterflies._ _

__How did Keiji end up with a crush on Bokuto Kotaro, his next door neighbor that he’s only talked to a handful of times? And he’s sure Bokuto feels the same-- that blush on his cheeks earlier was proof enough._ _

__Maybe he should ask him out. Or something._ _

__But Keiji… god, is he awful with men. And dating. Especially dating. He never knows what to say, how to act. At dinner, where does he put his hands? On the table, in his lap? He overthinks everything like that. The small, seemingly unimportant things. But if he places his hands on the table, is he inviting his date to hold them? If he sets them in his lap, does he seem distant?_ _

__Keiji is awful with men._ _

__But he thinks he wants to try with Bokuto._ _

__His brain circles and circles like this, trying to make a decision (and trying not to make his way back to the couch, to see if Bokuto is still awake, too), and then finally sleep grabs onto him and pulls him down. It’s a deep sleep, and if he dreams he doesn’t remember it._ _

__Light slants in through the window, landing on Keiji’s face. The warmth of it makes him stir, eyes cracking open. He fumbles for his cellphone, lost in the blankets tangled around his body. The clock informs him that he’s slept in— nearly 10:30, and yet Keiji would still like nothing more than to curl up for a couple more hours… But he resists that urge, stumbling out of bed and yawning as he rubs sleep from his eyes and slips into his bathroom._ _

___God,_ he thinks as he looks into the mirror. His _hair._ It’s a mess of curls and tangles, sticking up in every direction. He turns the faucet on and attacks his tresses with a wet brush in attempts to fix it. Obviously he had slept hard last night; though he had wanted to just roll over and sleep when he had first woken, he feels well rested for the first time in ages._ _

__And for the first time in ages, Keiji isn’t worried about deadlines coming up or trying to get his author to just please work with him. Keiji is too busy thinking about Bokuto. So when he emerges from the bathroom with hair flattened by water, he’s disappointed to see his blankets folded up and sitting on the arm of his couch._ _

__Oh. Well._ _

__Of course he left. Morning is quickly becoming afternoon, and Keiji shouldn’t have expected Bokuto Kotaro to just sit around his apartment waiting for Keiji to maybe wake up. Still, disappointment sets in, and he’s cursing himself from moving away last night when he should have just taken his chance and _kissed_ him, damnit._ _

__He’s so caught up in these thoughts, these What Ifs, that he doesn’t notice the piece of paper sitting on top of the blankets until it falls onto the floor as Keiji lifts the blankets off the couch._ _

__Keiji drops them on the floor immediately, scrambling for the note. The handwriting is messy, and Keiji can hear his blood rush in his ears._ _

___Good Morning, Akaashi!  
Sorry I left without telling you— had an early practice. No rest for the famous! Thanks for letting me stay over and thanks for buying pizza. We should do this again sometime? _ _ _

__And, scrawled at the bottom, a number._ _

__Keiji sinks onto the couch, note held in his hand, staring at the phone number. Bokuto gave him his number, and Bokuto wants to hang out again. On one hand, there is no point in denying that there is some kind of attraction between the two of them. On the other, does Keiji really want to get involved in a relationship right now?_ _

__The answer is yes. And the answer is no, there’s no time for it, how will it fit into his schedule?_ _

__But there’s the fear if he doesn’t take this chance, if he lets it slip by, Keiji will end up regretting it. It would be hard, seeing Bokuto just down the hall, knowing that they could have had something. Keiji would always be thinking in What Ifs…_ _

__He picks up his phone and he dials._ _

———

When Bokuto had asked Keiji on a date, he had expected it to be that dinner they kept talking about but never setting a date for, or maybe a volleyball games since that was a mutual interest. Yet, somehow, here Keiji was, standing in front of his bathroom mirror once again trying to get his hair under control, because it absolutely cannot be out of control for a wedding.

A wedding! And for someone that Keiji doesn’t even know. Two teammates of Bokuto’s, he had said. Anxiously, Keiji glances at his watch. He has just enough time to think, “Bokuto will be here any minute,” before he hears a knock on his apartment door.

Keiji scrambles, straightening his glasses and giving himself one last look in the mirror before speed walking to the door and throwing it open.

His heart stutters.

Bokuto looks so well put together that it’s difficult to connect him to the goofy looking guy Keiji met on his first day in this complex. His hair looks neat, orderly, and his suit fits so well on his body that it makes Keiji feel self conscious about his own suit, a size too big… And that smile. God, that smile. It does bad things to Keiji’s head.

“You look great,” Bokuto says, and he says it with such confidence that Keiji believes him instantly.

“You do, too.” But Bokuto already knows he looks great. Keiji can see it in his stance, in the tilt of his head and the glint in his eye. Bokuto gives a short laugh and offers Keiji his arm.

And Keiji takes it… before quickly letting go to shut and lock his door, and then he takes it again, lets Bokuto lead him down the stairs and across the parking lot and to the car.

Though Keiji is wearing a suit just like every other male at the wedding, he can’t help but feel underdressed.

Every guest looks effortlessly put together, at ease with glasses of champagne in their hands as they stand under soft lights and mingle. Keiji watches them, tries to mirror their postures as one of the grooms, Sakusa Kiyoomi, asks him about himself, about his work.

“A publishing house?” he asks. He sips his champagne and blinks, just once, slowly. Keiji notices a small crowd start to gather on the dance floor, couples taking each other’s hands. “Interesting. I never expected the studious type to be Bokuto’s type.”

The wedding ceremony had been brief but lovely, the grooms reading off their vows and exchanging rings, and even though Keiji hadn’t spoken a word to either of them before the ceremony, he could see from his seat how in love they were. Sakusa’s eyes had shone with adoration as Miya Atsumu read off his vows and repeated promises. Those eyes had little to no shine in them now, as he spoke to Keiji, and his tone was dry. Keiji could feel his face heating up.

“I’m not sure what Bokuto’s type is,” Keiji replies. He wants so badly to reach up and adjust his tie (is it crooked? He feels like it’s crooked) but he forces his hands to stay at his sides. “We’ve only known each other for a little while.”

A flicker of surprise ghosts over Sakusa’s face, there and gone again in an instant. “Really. He talks about you all the time.”

Keiji’s turn to blink— three times, rapidly. He hadn’t realized there was anything to talk about. “Really? I hadn’t realized—” He stops short as Atsumu comes up beside his husband, watching as his hand comes up to touch the inside of Sakusa’s elbow. Somehow, that single touch is more intimate than any kiss Keiji has ever witnessed. Sakusa leans slightly into the touch, turns his head to look at Atsumu, and Atsumu in turn leans in to whisper something in Sakusa’s ear.

“If you’ll excuse me.” The words are addressed to Keiji, but Sakusa doesn’t look away from Atsumu. “It seems there’s someone who wants to talk to me. It was nice meeting you.” On the last sentence, he glances at Keiji again, nodding slightly. Atsumu leads him away, and Keiji has a moment to exhale.

But it’s only a moment.

“Hey.”

Of course it’s Bokuto. Keiji doesn’t have to look to know that; he has gotten used to the sound of his voice, the cadence of his words. Still, his eyes lift to the direction of the voice, because Keiji just simply likes to look at Bokuto Kotaro. “Hey.” He’s smiling because Bokuto is smiling, and because Bokuto’s eyes on him somehow makes him feel like no one else’s eyes matter.

Bokuto reaches a hand out, palm up. “I think we should dance,” he says, and the idea is absurd. Keiji has never danced in front of anyone, and there are dozens of people in this room.

“No way.”

“Come on, Akaashi, my moves are awesome.”

His moves are probably awesome, but Keiji’s moves are mediocre at best. But Bokuto waggles his eyebrows, and then waggles his fingers, and before Keiji knows it a smile is forming on his lips and he places his hand into Bokuto’s.

And “awesome” isn’t the word to come to mind as Bokuto dances, bouncing from foot to foot to the beat of the music. His arms rotate around each other and he claps off rhythm a couple of times, but awesome is the way Keiji feels as his cheeks start to hurt from grinning and his belly starts to hurt from laughing and awesome is the way he feels when the song ends and Bokuto grabs his hand again and drags him away from the dance floor and outside. And awesome is how he feels as the humid night air hits his skin, makes his hair curl, and Bokuto’s hand stays wrapped around his.

The lights from the street are bright, and cars are blurs as they race by. Keiji leans against the brick of the building and takes a deep breath.

“I’m really glad you called me, Akaashi.” Bokuto’s hand squeezes Keiji’s. “I wasn’t sure you were going to.”

This confession surprises Keiji. Why would Bokuto leave his number if he wasn’t one hundred percent certain Keiji would use it? “Of course I’d call.” Wasn’t it obvious he was interested? “Why wouldn’t I?”

Bokuto shrugs, head tilting up towards the sky. Keiji looks up, too— light pollution makes it impossible to see the stars. “You never got back to me about that dinner.” There’s something in Bokuto’s voice that’s different, something that Keiji has yet to hear. An ounce, maybe, of insecurity? It seems so unlike him; the Bokuto that Keiji has gotten to know exudes confidence from every pore, every follicle.

Except that isn’t necessarily true. He remembers that first day, in his apartment, the way his shoulders had slumped. And that same feeling is here, in the lilt of his voice, in the faraway look in his eyes…

Keiji squeezes his hand, now, and Bokuto meets his gaze. “I’m sorry,” Keiji says. He wants to ease Bokuto’s sadness so badly, wants to see that bright smile again. “I thought that was just a neighborly invitation. I didn’t know you were interested in me that way.”

“I’ve been interested in you since I saw you.” It’s blunt, to the point and completely serious. “I just feel drawn to you, like we’re meant to know each other.”

Oh.

“Oh.” Keiji has to look away. All at once, Bokuto’s gaze is too much as he feels his face heat up. He rubs his cheek on his shoulder, looks at their feet. Bokuto’s hand stays in his, and Keiji knows if he glances back up those eyes will still be on him.

It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to him.

It’s also a lot to take in.

But Keiji is drawn to Bokuto, too. Drawn into the orbit of his personality. And getting to know him has been the most fun Keiji has had in months, even if it was in small moments in the parking lot or outside their apartment doors. And so he says, by way of answering, “I like the way your hand feels in mine.”

Bokuto’s free hand comes up and rests against Keiji’s cheek, pulling his gaze back toward him. His thumb draws short strokes over Keiji’s cheekbone. “I’d really like to kiss you right now,” Bokuto says, “if that’s okay.”

“It’s okay.” The words are just a breath, barely words at all, but Bokuto somehow hears them anyway as he leans in and presses his lips against Keiji’s.

The kiss reverberates all the way to Keiji’s toes. His hand finds its way to the back of Bokuto’s neck and pulls him in deeper, and when Bokuto groans it makes his stomach flip. Their lips move together, clumsy at first, learning, but they get the hang of it and soon they are lost in each other. Fingers tangle in hair as Keiji’s back presses against the wall and Bokuto’s knee presses between his legs. Keiji’s head swims with just Bokuto, Bokuto, Bokuto, and he never wants this to end.

But it does. It has to, because they’re at a wedding and the night is so damp, and now the front of their suits are creased. Keiji’s pushes against Bokuto’s shoulder, and Bokuto whines against Keiji’s lips before pulling away.

“We should probably get back inside,” Keiji says. He’s dizzy, a bit lightheaded from the lack of air, and Bokuto’s cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen. Keiji is sure he looks the same. Complete messes. What they did will be obvious to anyone who looks at them.

Keiji (almost) doesn’t care.

“Yeah,” Bokuto agrees, and again he holds out his hand. And again Keiji takes it, and again Keiji lets Bokuto lead him. And as the dizzy feeling starts to subside and they step back into the reception hall, Keiji’s fingers squeeze Bokuto’s hand once more. Something is starting here, between them. It was starting from the moment Keiji ran into Bokuto in the hallway of their shared apartment complex.

It’s starting, and Keiji doesn’t know if this relationship will turn into a three month thing or a six month thing, or maybe a thing where one day _they’re_ the ones standing across from each other and reading off vows. It’s impossible to know where they’ll end up, but Keiji welcomes the journey.


End file.
